Endless Summer
by SunEyedGirl
Summary: One year after their bitter breakup, Peyton and Lucas - with Brooke's meticulous orchestration - are forced together again in the place where it all began.
1. No place like the place we used to go

_A/N: Firstly, I want to say a very sincere thank you to all of you who reviewed or favourited my first story. I haven't really ever before shown anyone my writing, and I didn't realise what an overwhelming effect reviews and feedback can have. It makes me want to keep writing. Honestly, if I could afford the international postage, I would send each of you a big bunch of flowers! Thank you, thank you, thank you! And please keep reviewing!_

_This story will probably be only a two or three parter. I wrote it quite quickly and am a bit unsure about where it's going but I wanted to post and see what you thought. I've written two chapters of another different story which is proving incredibly difficult to write, so I took a bit of time to cool off and wrote this instead. __It picks up two years into the hiatus between seasons 4 and 5, and the rest should be self-explanatory. _

_Also, please tell me if I've got my geography all wrong - apart from some cursory internet research, I'm clueless on the best beaches in North Carolina, and Emerald Isle might be completely off base!_

_Title is from a song by The Jezabels. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Can one week change a life?<p>

This is what Peyton Sawyer is wondering as she stands stoic at the outside porch of a sprawling wooden house whose shutters crash and bang and seem altogether unlikely to survive the week of stormy weather almost guaranteed ahead.

She stands, looking at the sea in front of her, which already whirls and dumps huge wrecking waves unceremoniously onto the shore as if predicting and eagerly anticipating the wild weather to come.

And beyond the breaking waves is the cusp of the vast North Atlantic Ocean, and at its visible horizon is the orange setting sky, which yawns down on the world tonight invitingly, amiably, although tomorrow it will certainly turn furious and grey and send down rain and thick forks of lightning as a menacing reminder or a punishment for daring to be the foolish humans that they are.

But right now, even for the briefest moment, Peyton stands, and looks at the friendly sky, and the unruly sea, and thinks that maybe this is the start or the end of everything her world is supposed to be, one or the other. It feels like it must be, somehow.

And then she hears the sounds of suitcases bumpity-bump up the stairs at the opposite end of the house (Brooke never did quite grasp how to pack lightly) and the holler of Skills shouting to Mouth about the beers and then, shockingly, for the first time in a year, a low honeyed murmur which means her ex-boyfriend has actually arrived, and Peyton lets out a shuddering breath she didn't realise she was holding and holds onto the balcony railing to dizzyingly steady herself.

Soon she will go inside and Brooke will hug her for the first time in two years and Skills will high-five her and Lucas will inwardly knock her down with one casual flick of his eyes, but for now Peyton will still stand, and look, and wait for the future to come to her.

* * *

><p>It seems surreal now to think that the whole history of this trip starts only three weeks earlier. Three weeks ago, when Peyton is still a sleep-deprived music intern with permanent smudges of faintest purple under her eyes, a mobile phone constantly affixed to her ear and, most importantly, no intention whatsoever of leaving this cosy little existence in Los Angeles anytime in the near future.<p>

She doesn't date. She travels from home to work, then work to home, then repeats the cycle exhaustingly five or six times over. She works twelve-hour days, surviving on scarce more than two avocado-cucumber sushi rolls at midday and two – or make it three – jumbo cappuccinos spaced intermittently throughout the day.

At nights, she lies on her bed with her iPod and looks out at the L.A. night sky through her window. If the solitude gets too unbearable, she ventures to any bar playing a random indie act just to have the feeling of being _around_ people again, of unity, of intimacy, although she travels defiantly solo and invariably returns alone to an empty bed at the end of the night.

Her cell phone rings constantly, jarring her thoughts with its insistent little jingle. The calls are work-related. Never personal. She doesn't know who outside of work would know her number, besides her housemate, but they're two strangers who have never actually had a real conversation and the number is really only a courtesy for our-apartment-is-flooding/on fire/up for inspection-type emergencies.

She hasn't spoken to Brooke in three months, not since an obligatory, overly-friendly birthday phone call in March which lasts all of three minutes and ends with a rather awkward question about Lucas at which Peyton mutters something politely evasive and leaves otherwise unanswered.

She hasn't spoken to Lucas in all of twelve months, since a lonely encounter in a hotel room in which a marriage proposal was nervously offered and angrily revoked an hour later, since a night full of bitterness, accusation and regret that achingly lingers on for a year and counting.

Of course, Peyton has spoken to Lucas in her imagination ten, twenty times since then. She runs through their final conversation obsessively, turning it over and over, phrasing it differently.

She tells Lucas what she would have said that morning after the proposal, if he had only stayed until she had woken up. If she had opened her eyes a minute earlier and seen a pair of light blue eyes staring sadly back at her instead of a gapingly empty hotel room.

She would tell Lucas that she doesn't know how to live in a world without his voice waiting safely on the other end of a telephone line. How L.A. makes you kick and scratch and fight and hang on for dear life just to survive, and without Lucas, she feels like maybe it's simpler to sink.

She would explain to Lucas how easy it is to forget how comfortable his embrace is when she doesn't feel it for months and months on end. How the Los Angeles lifestyle makes a young, impressionable girl jaded to the concept of true love, and she needs him beside her just to remind her sometimes.

But she didn't say those things a year ago, and she is not brave enough, or too proud, perhaps, to pick up the phone and say them now.

Her phone rings loudly, shaking her firmly out of her reverie, and she remembers it is a sunny Friday in Los Angeles, California, and she is three thousand miles away from the object of her musings so she should really be getting back to work, because she is the in the copy room at Sire Records with a healthy stack of memos which aren't going to miraculously copy themselves four hundred times over. She sighs.

"Yeah?"

She answers her phone abruptly, too aggressively. Above all her other stresses, deadlines and responsibilities far too old for her meagre twenty years, it is her phone's constant ringing that puts her permanently on edge. She resents the unknown caller already for the mere presumption of dialing her number and expecting her welcoming answer.

"Peyton."

Peyton breathes out. It's not work. It's a raspy little lilt that rushes her immediately back to cheer practice and drinking on the beach in the summertime and long, meaningful talks in her bedroom in Tree Hill.

"Brooke. Hi."

"Look, I know you're busy and I really don't want to keep you."

Brooke – clearly – has noticed the unfriendly way in which Peyton has answered the phone, and Peyton winces, regretting her unwelcoming greeting.

"No. Sorry. I'm not too busy. It's just my phone – constantly ringing, you know. Gotta learn how to screen pretty fast."

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

Peyton forces an uneasy laugh, and there is an awkward pause. Perhaps each girl realises how precious little besides work that they now share in common.

The pause grows broader, and Brooke suddenly realises that Peyton is patiently waiting for her to speak. Perhaps in her rush to express herself, to immediately fill the sudden silence that has appeared, Brooke's words come out in a hurried tangle and sound rather more dramatic than first intended.

"So, I have this great idea," she announces, and Peyton raises her eyebrows and laughs genuinely this time_. _Historically, Brooke's ideas got them in a _lot_ of trouble. She surprises herself at how tempted she feels to get caught up in one of Brooke's schemes once again. How wonderfully reckless it would be to do something unpredictable.

"An idea?" Peyton exclaims sarcastically. "A real Brooke Davis-commissioned scheme with a guaranteed outcome of trouble, pain, suffering or heartbreak? I can't wait to hear this. It's been a while."

"Whatever," Brooke snaps. "My ideas are always fun."

"Oh, was that _fun_ in junior year when you made me camp out in the mall overnight so we could be the first in line for _Harry Potter_ books? It was _creepy_, Brooke. And you'll never be allowed in that pet store again." She laughs. "Or what about when we were seniors, and you convinced Bevin she could do a backflip in the middle of cheering at a Ravens game? Flat on her face, butt in the air, of course on the only night she's _not _wearing her cheer bloomers. The whole crowd saw. _Everything._"

"Peyton," Brooke replies incredulously, "that _was _hilarious."

Peyton pauses to consider, then giggles. "Oh yeah. It was totally fun. Completely worth it."

The two girls laugh in unison at their teenage antics, and Peyton is wondering why it's only been a two-minute phone call and already she feels better than she has in months.

"Okay, B. Davis," she says. "Hit me with it. Shoplifting? Pregnancy pact? Nudie run? Because I hate to say it, babe, but you've done, like, two out of the three already."

"As have you," Brooke shoots back slyly, and Peyton is forced to concede this is true.

"So," Brooke asks, "how many weeks of holiday leave do you get per year?"

"Four," Peyton answers slowly, suspiciously. "Why?"

"And how many weeks have you taken so far?" Brooke responds, bypassing Peyton's question bossily.

"Well. None, technically," Peyton says in an ashamed whisper.

Since New Year's Day, she has worked virtually nonstop. She loves to complain about how busy she is, but the sad truth is that she doesn't have anywhere to holiday to, and she certainly doesn't have anyone to go with. In L.A., all she has is work to keep her occupied.

"Thought so," mutters Brooke smugly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peyton shoots back.

"Oh, nothing. I just had this idea, that's all. There's some logistics I need to figure out, babe, but I'll call you soon with all the details, okay?"

"Wait, Brooke – what's going on? Details for what?"

"Just something I've been thinking about a lot, that's all," says Brooke soothingly. "It'll be fun, I promise. Oh, and Peyton – "

"_Brooke,_" says Peyton, ever-skeptical of Brooke's version of 'fun'. "Tell me what you're up to. _Right now._"

"Just chill out a bit, okay? Loosen up. You're working _way_ too hard. I can tell."

And Brooke Davis hangs up her phone with a slam and a giggle, knowing that in one short conversation she has managed to infuriate, embarrass and humble Peyton Sawyer from almost 3000 miles away.

* * *

><p>Peyton, thoroughly annoyed at Brooke's elusive answers, spends the most part of the next week in some kind of hybrid state of resentful curiosity. She spends huge chunks of time in a daydream, awakening to discover she has mixed up coffee orders or printed triple the amount of posters she needs. She stamps around the office loudly, angrily. She flings her handbag down onto her desk and upends a desktop lamp by accident; she sets her coffee cup down a little too forcefully and burns her hand with a sprinkle of boiling water. The worst is when a stranger bumps smack into her and Peyton berates him rudely before she realises she has been swearing at the label president for the last two minutes.<p>

She gets into trouble for her carelessness more this week than ever, and instead of accepting the blame quietly as she might have done before, she finds herself angrily snapping back, in too unpleasant a mood to continue acting agreeable to her colleagues.

_Loosen up,_ she thinks indignantly. _Working way too hard. _Since when did Brooke have the right to judge what was best for her?

And though she doesn't acknowledge it, a little voice in her head answers her candidly back. _Since forever, since you first became best friends, since she knew everything there was to know about you and vice versa. _

Brooke phones a week after their first conversation, and Peyton almost lets it ring out, still irritated and slightly in awe of her friend's insolent honesty from the last time they spoke. After a furious internal battle, she reluctantly picks up.

"Finally decided I'm not too boring for you?"

"Jury's still out on that one," replies Brooke with a grin. "And you know what will convince me you're still the crazy P. Sawyer we all know and love?"

"Oh, so I'm finally going to hear your big idea after you've kept me in suspense for a week?" asks Peyton grudgingly.

"You'll totally forgive me when you hear what it is," Brooke replies. Then, after a pause, "Beach trip," she announces, as though expecting a drumroll.

"Okay, are you visiting L.A.? We can go to the beach, yeah. Malibu or something? Santa Barbara? I'm free weekends," Peyton responds without enthusiasm. While she's glad Brooke hasn't suggested something totally outlandish or – well – Brooke-like, she is perhaps secretly disappointed. After two uneventful years in L.A., she inwardly _craves_ something out of the ordinary, something interesting to break the monotony of her featureless life.

Then Brooke drops the bombshell.

"No, not in L.A. Back in North Carolina. Emerald Isle. It's beautiful there in the summer. Remember when we went there for a field trip in junior year? I figured we could all use a break back home. I've booked everything. Flights, a big house on the ocean for a week. We leave in two weeks tomorrow. Exciting, right? Everyone's already said yes. Our whole high school group will be there. You're the last one I've told."

While Brooke continues to gabble, Peyton stands stunned. She doesn't know whether to laugh or yell. She removes the phone from her ear and stares at it, as though in disbelief. _North Carolina? In two weeks? Impossible._ She doesn't think she has ever before been quite as shocked at something Brooke has said, and that's quite a sizable achievement.

She lets her silence on the phone linger, while excuses run rapidly through her mind, with only one thought remaining constant: _I cannot go_. Peyton desperately tries to think of some reason to explain her absence, some way to let Brooke off lightly, until –

"Work!" Peyton exclaims almost too triumphantly, then immediately tries her best to act disappointed. "I can't go, Brooke, sorry. I have to work every day."

"Oh, but you already said you had four weeks of holidays," Brooke replies innocently. "You told me that on the phone last week, remember?"

_Shit_, thinks Peyton. _She's good._

"Yeah, but it's work policy to give notice if we want to take holidays, Brooke. I can't just take off. I have forms to fill in, people that need to cover for me," Peyton says.

"And how much notice do you need to give?" Brooke asks, still in that light, innocent tone.

Peyton pauses and breathes out, chuckling despite herself at Brooke's sheer nerve. _She's really good._

"Two weeks," she says, her heart sinking. "I have to give two weeks' notice."

"Well, go and give it, then," Brooke replies, victorious. "Do all the boring paperwork today, and then in two weeks, you'll be good to go!"

"_Brooke_," Peyton begins again, exasperated. "You booked a flight for me across the country, and probably some _mansion_ on the beach in one of the most expensive towns in North Carolina, all without asking me. I just can't afford it right now. I'm sorry, but it's just not possible."

"Oh, there's no problem with that," Brooke replies smoothly. "Sorry, didn't I say? The trip's on me. 21st birthday present. You're welcome, by the way."

"I'm not 21," Peyton says through gritted teeth. "_I'm-barely-even-20._"

"_Early_ 21st present, then," Brooke says, barely containing her glee. "Very early. Honestly, Peyton, it's like you don't want to come."

_Is it really_, thinks Peyton, almost grinding her teeth in her state of agitation, annoyed with Brooke for calling her unexpectedly after two years of near-silence and forcing this on her as though nothing had changed. Brooke's trick, though sneaky, had worked exactly the way she planned it, and Peyton, thoroughly duped, has no more excuses left to give.

"Brooke," she whispers, and suddenly her resolve shifts, and her voice breaks, and Brooke is no longer a stranger but her best friend once more, the person who she can spill her heart to, the person who best understands her.

"Brooke," she repeats, urgently this time, imploring her to comprehend. She breathes out heavily, finally defeated into telling the truth. "Come on. It's not that. Of course it's not. It's Lucas."

Perhaps because the name has been near-unspeakable in their recent conversations, Peyton says his name in a low hiss, with an unintentional degree of reverence. Brooke breathes down the line, whistling slightly, and Peyton knows she understands.

"How long's it been?" she asks.

"A year," Peyton whispers. "A whole year." And it seems to Peyton that the gulf between herself and the rest of the world widens then by a whole lifetime, and nothing else in the world can cure her except perhaps Lucas' arms wrapped tightly around her, or a cheeky quirk of Brooke's eyebrow, or Haley's motherly embrace.

Brooke murmurs her concern, and Peyton can feel her sympathy.

"Peyton, I know it's really none of my business anymore, but I've spoken to Luke already and he seems pretty miserable. I think he's really missing you. And he said… he said he was really excited for the beach, and to see everyone again. Especially you."

"He said that?" Peyton asks incredulously.

"Yeah, he did," Brooke says, and Peyton wonders fleetingly whether the slight pitch change in Brooke's voice then has some significance, or if her distrustful nature is just in overdrive.

"Brooke, if this is some kind of cutesy plan of yours to get the two of us back together in one week, I can tell you right now - "

"Of course that's not what this is," Brooke cuts in. Her voice is back to normal. "You know, Peyton, it might come as a shock to you, but not everything is about your love life." She sounds mildly amused, but also slightly pissed, and Peyton suddenly gets a piercing image of her, reclining at her desk twenty stories above Fifth Avenue, stiletto-clad feet propped up on her desk, shaking her head bemusedly.

"I just thought it would be fun to be our little group again, you know? Have our real friends around. Get away from everything. Just for a week."

Peyton closes her eyes without thinking and nods her head slightly. And as if in some kind of subtle concurrence, the L.A. sunshine seeps through her window at that very moment, and Peyton basks in the unexpected warmth and realises that summer has finally arrived once again.

Brooke's idea seems suddenly almost irresistibly tempting. To go back home. To be with people who have loved her for years unconditionally, without demands, without a price. To do nothing all day, but still feel fulfilled. To be crazy again. To act her age. To have _fun. _

And although she would never admit it, perhaps her chance, offhand mention of Lucas' name has given Peyton courage. Perhaps her recent sensation of being so enclosed, too tied down, has provoked this need to break free. Perhaps it's as simple as feeling the sun shining on her face. Whatever it is, everything else just fades away.

"You know what?" Peyton says, breathing quickly, her heart beating fervently. She feels like she is on the edge of a cliff, inches away from reckless abandonment, from freedom, from uncertainty.

"What?" Brooke replies, giggling. She knows what Peyton will say, has always been uncannily able to predict Peyton's reaction.

"Count me in," declares Peyton, and the two friends grin down the phone line, each exhilarated to do something unpredictable together again, each needing this trip, and each other, more than they would otherwise care to admit.

* * *

><p>Brooke hangs up the phone five minutes later, having wrapped up the logistics of flight times ("7am at LAX, Saturday fortnight"), directions ("a driver will pick you up at the airport and he'll know where to go"), and what to bring ("vodka, tequila, and a bikini").<p>

Brooke sits at her desk in her huge office, biting her lip. She angrily grabs a random pencil off her desk and chews on it furiously. Her heel taps the floor incessantly, making a loud echo on the tiled surface. Her feet ache, and, finally surrendering, she peels her stilettos off. _I'm the boss, after all,_ she thinks mutinously. _I can go barefoot at the office if I want to. _

She exhales a deep breath. That phone call was a tricky one to pull off. Peyton has never been an easy person to persuade, and today was no different. But after their phone call a few months ago, in which Peyton sounded so tragically sad and pessimistic, Brooke knew she had to do something. Her best friend was hurting and lost. Los Angeles was choking all the life, and spirit, and hope, out of her, and the only thing that would help was a visit back home, back to normality. And, yes, back to Lucas. She was absolutely shocked when they broke up, and in these past twelve months had witnessed the two of them falling apart almost simultaneously. They needed each other, and it seemed like they were the only two people in the world who didn't realise that.

So Brooke was going to force them to realise through the most obvious way she knew: simple geography. It was easy to ignore their feelings when they were across the country from each other. But in the same house for a week, and back home in North Carolina where all their memories were made in the beginning…well, she thinks, things could get complicated.

Peyton, of course, would immediately refuse to come if she knew Brooke's true motives. Brooke feels guilty for lying to her. Deception had always been an unfortunate part of Peyton and Brooke's friendship, and Brooke regrets continuing that tradition. But she knows it is necessary. _She'll forgive me on her wedding day_, she thinks grimly.

Brooke looks desperately around the room for some kind of distraction, something to defer the phone call she now has to make, and finds nothing but her phone winking at her smugly, reflecting the New York summer sun now streaming in through her floor-to-ceiling windows. She picks it up, sighing, and for the second time today, dials a number which, apart from in the last week, she hasn't otherwise had reason to call in months.

The voice on the other end picks up the phone on the seventh ring, just before it clicks to voicemail, and Haley James Scott seems out of breath when she answers.

"Hello?"

"Hales. It's me. Brooke."

"Brooke! How are you?" Haley trills excitedly, then pauses. "Hang on – " she seems distracted – "I've got a two-year-old on my hip and a batch of cookies burning in the oven, can you hold on for a sec?"

"Absolutely," Brooke replies, happy to indulge in this kind of domestic scene so foreign to her own life.

"Nathan!" Haley calls in the background, and Brooke can hear the heavy steps of Nathan Scott coming closer. "Nathan, can you take Jamie, please? I've got Brooke on the phone."

"Hey, Brooke," Nathan directs cheerfully into the phone. "See you in two weeks." Brooke can hear him muttering something to Haley then cooing as he lifts Jamie out of Haley's arms.

"Brooke," Haley says happily. "So good to hear from you! What's up, girly?"

"I just wanted to let you know that Peyton's coming," Brooke says brightly, feigning cheerfulness, eager to bring this conversation quickly to its point.

"To what?" Haley says obliviously, and Brooke can hear her still in the kitchen, opening drawers, banging cupboards, setting an oven timer.

"To the beach," Brooke replies impatiently. "In a fortnight."

The noise in the kitchen stops. "She's _coming_?" Haley asks incredulously. "Really? I find that hard to believe."

"Really," Brooke said firmly. "Which means I've held up my end of the bargain."

"Meaning what? You want me to convince Lucas to come to the beach?"

"Well, yeah. That's what we agreed when I called you last week. I'll talk to Peyton, but it's your job to persuade Lucas."

Haley scoffs. Her chirpy demeanour of seconds before has all but disappeared.

"He's not going to like it," she warns. "He's going to put up a fight."

"Oh, and you think Peyton didn't?"

"Brooke – he's not going to want to come. It's as simple as that."

"Neither did she," Brooke soothes. "It's called being persuasive. If things get tough, just mention Peyton. Tell him she's really missing him. That's what I did, and Peyton melted like butter at the sound of his name. It was heartbreaking, really."

"Lucas doesn't want to see Peyton," replies Haley, outraged. "Brooke, she _broke his heart_. She rejected his proposal. Do you know how devastated he was after that day? He's miserable. He won't look me in the eye if I ask about her. Basically refuses to discuss it. He barely talks at all, in fact. So I hardly think he's going to jump up and down at the prospect of a big happy holiday with his ex-girlfriend and the rest of his friends who all knew him predominantly when he was in love with her."

"Well, what did you _think_ was going to happen when you agreed to get Lucas on board?"

"I thought Peyton would say no outright, and we'd all go without her," Haley says flatly. "Honestly, Brooke, I love Peyton, and I can't wait to see her, but wouldn't that have been easier, really?"

"I don't care if it's easier," Brooke says emphatically. "You know as well as I do that they're both meant to be together. They're both hurting, Hales. It's obvious they both don't know what to do without each other. Peyton's the same. Working all the time, totally antisocial, lives this depressing lonely existence. Soon she's going to slip away from us completely, and we'll have ourselves to blame. They _need_ this, and you know it as well as I do."

Haley sighs. "Girls' trip?" she offers, as a last, hopeless attempt, and even she can hear the desperation in her voice. "I can leave Jamie at home with Nathan, just us three at the beach? Leave Lucas and the rest of the guys out of it?"

"No," says Brooke, adamant, and from the tone of her voice Haley knows any further disagreement is futile.

"Well, I'll do my best," Haley concedes, thinking privately that she would be very lucky to even get Lucas to consider the idea. "I'll give Luke a call in a few minutes and I'll let you know soon."

"You better do more than that, Haley. You better _make_ him come. Change his schedule, lie, make something up, I don't care. Just get him to that beach, okay? It's important."

"Okay, okay. I'll do whatever I can, alright?" Haley replies, slightly startled at her friend's dedication.

"Oh, and one more thing," Brooke begins. "I kinda told Peyton that Lucas was definitely coming, so you better think of something good to convince him, okay? Because I think Peyton's going to be even more crushed if he doesn't turn up after I promised he would."

"And why the _hell_ would you - " Haley begins, scandalised, but Brooke cuts her off.

"Gotta go, Hales. Can't stay and talk all day! Just do it, okay? Now. Byeee!"

And, characteristically, Brooke Davis slams down her phone, leaving Haley in a sour, cheated mood, with a pounding headache and an incredibly difficult job ahead of her.

Haley steels herself. Although she doesn't anticipate her forthcoming task and the inevitable argument that will follow, she knows the importance of having Lucas at the beach. It would be truly great to find a way to pull him out of this depressing low he has been in, and Haley is fresh out of ideas. But she knows, as Brooke emphasised, that there is a difference between the easy way and the right way to achieve something.

Sighing, she opens her phone and dials Lucas' familiar number. In the year since she, Jamie and Nathan have moved to Maryland, she calls Lucas once or twice a week, and as far as she can tell, his social life consists of lying brooding on his bed with his iPod every night or spending long nights holed in the office with his editor poring over his book manuscript one more time.

"Lucas," Haley coos sweetly, as soon as he picks up the phone. Hating herself, she plasters a fake smile on her face, and can hear how unconvincing she sounds down the phone line. "Hey, Luke. You know how much Jamie misses his uncle, don't you?"

* * *

><p><em><em>So I know this chapter was mostly set-up and a flashback, but next chapter will be Peyton and Lucas at the beach, so stick around! <em>__Thanks for reading, and please review!_


	2. Dark Sea

Peyton stands on the vast balcony overlooking the sea, drawing in breath after trembling breath, her heart hammering so loudly it seems inexplicable that nobody has heard her yet. She can't understand why she is so nervous. Brooke's distinctive voice flows like a familiar song through the big house, and suddenly Peyton is filled with excitement and anticipation at seeing her best friend.

Brooke is chattering nonstop, determined, it seems, to catch her guests up on every minute detail of her life these past two years. Peyton catches phrases like "working on the new fall line," and "my new secretary Millicent, who is an absolute _angel_," in the same breath as "I wouldn't call it dating, but we're definitely hanging out a _lot_," and "I was going to grow it, but then I just said screw it, you know, and I cut it all off." At this, Peyton suppresses a smile, thinking that Brooke, at least, is still the same lively, bubbly person that she has always been.

It is strange, Peyton knows, for her to still be standing in silence out here amidst the sound of her friends' welcoming voices. Any other person – any normal person, she thinks – would rush to them with open arms, ecstatic to be reunited. And Peyton does want this. A chance to catch up on two years' missed conversations with Brooke, each girl speaking progressively quicker and more indecipherably as they debrief. An opportunity to hear Skills call her P. Sawyer once more; an occasion to see a two-year-old Jamie Scott for the first time since he was a newborn. She wants all of this. Indeed, these are the very reasons she came on this trip. She wants to move forward, to leave her safe hideaway, but something stops her.

_You've got to get over it somehow_, she tells herself, shaking her head in frustration and tapping her foot on the deck relentlessly. _You're spending a whole week with him, you know_. She is talking, of course, about _Lucas_, about the person she has thought about all-consumingly for the last two weeks, ever since she knew she was going to see him.

Her feelings for Lucas border somewhere between intense longing and bitter resentment over the way he – in her eyes – virtually discarded their relationship a year ago. If she had been in his position, she knew she would not have been able to leave Lucas in that hotel room like he did to her. If only because of an intense desire for his physical presence after such a long time, she would have stayed close to Lucas for as long as possible. They would have woken up well-rested together the next day, and she would have skipped work so they could simply _talk_ for as long as they needed. Peyton feels like somehow she and Lucas never got to have that conversation; that morning-after-the-fight make-up talk. However it had ultimately concluded, whether with a mutual breakup or an agreement to try again, Peyton would be much more confident about her feelings today. But now – now she feels like Lucas and her still have unfinished business, something intangible and curious: a mystery that she can't quite understand or explain. And she doesn't know what her reaction will be when she finally sees him.

It doesn't help, of course, that Haley has maintained an uncharacteristic stony silence about Lucas for the last year. She gives occasional, almost scheduled, updates about Jamie and Nathan and college. Peyton reciprocates with light, chatty stories about life in L.A. But every time she hesitantly mentions Lucas, she receives a short, cold reply in return. _People are always going to take sides_, she grudgingly concludes. But she misses the Haley she knew in high school – the wise friend who, because of Brooke's history, was often the only one she could talk to about Lucas and offer her advice. Because at the moment she could really use some.

By the sound of their footsteps up the stairs and the dull thump of heavy bags set down on the floor, Peyton estimates that the group has reached the kitchen, at the front of the house. She hears the zip of bags being opened and the bang of cupboard doors as a week's supply of food and drink is unloaded. Peyton hears Skills and Mouth scramble back down the stairs, presumably heading towards their car full of supplies. Brooke and Lucas, then, are left alone in the kitchen.

_This is getting weird_, Peyton thinks. _I should be in there right now._ And finally, she makes herself walk two tentative steps towards the door before a voice – cautious, rumbling and painfully familiar – makes her stop in her tracks.

"So, who else are we waiting on?" asks Lucas quietly.

"_Peyton_," Brooke says, and Peyton physically winces at the amount of blatant emphasis Brooke places on the word. "Actually, she should be here by now. Her plane got in at five, and it's only twenty minutes from the airport. Haley and Nathan are driving down from College Park, and they've got Jamie, so who knows what time they'll finally show up."

"Right," Lucas responds vacantly, and it sounds to Peyton like he failed to listen to the latter half of Brooke's answer.

"Speaking of," Brooke continues suggestively, and Peyton almost has to restrain herself from barging into the house, to everyone's surprise, and clapping a hand over Brooke's mouth to stop her from going further.

"How are you and Peyton going, anyway?"

"How are we going?" Luke asks, and he laughs bitterly. "Impossible question. We're _not_ going. At all."

"Yeah, but, I mean, are you looking forward to seeing her? How exactly did you leave things last time, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Not well, Brooke. It's been a year and I don't really want to talk about it, to be honest. Things with Peyton … it's difficult. I think it always will be. Complicated, you know? Tiring. It's exhausting even thinking about it."

"Exhausting because you still love her, though, right?" Brooke whispers conspiratorially, and Peyton, furious, thinks desperately what she can do to make Brooke stop.

And then, at the worst possible moment, before Lucas has had a chance to answer, Peyton's cellphone begins to ring, that jarring, screechy sound which always seems to punctuate the worst possible situations. During Brooke's exclamation of surprise and quick footsteps towards her, Peyton checks the caller ID – work, of course, who else – then silences the call and looks despairingly around her for an escape route. Finding none, and realising it would look incredibly suspicious to run, she stands her ground and forces a welcoming smile, as Brooke and Lucas hurry outside.

The confused looks and scared expressions on both Brooke and Lucas' faces are not quite the excited greeting Peyton was expecting.

"Hi," Peyton says brightly, and she opens her arms to Brooke, and even manages to give Lucas an awkward half-embrace. She has not looked him in the eyes yet, but is still greeted with that individual scent of _him_, that dizzying aroma of soap and fabric softener exclusive to Lucas Scott that is so engrained in her memory.

"How much of that did you hear?" asks Lucas quietly after they break apart. His jaw is set angrily. He, too, does not make eye contact, instead glaring at Brooke, clearly furious that she asked the question, and embarrassed at the possibility of Peyton hearing it.

"How much of what?" Peyton asks lightly, forcing a puzzled grin.

"Peyton, what are you doing out here?" Brooke asks, her eyes narrowed. "When did you get up here?"

"Up here? Just now. On the balcony, I mean. I've been down at the beach, checking out the view, for a while now. It's beautiful, Brooke. You did well finding this place."

She says this briskly, almost mechanically, and the lie sounds weak even to her ears.

"Uh-huh," Brooke says, sounding unconvinced. Lucas still looks hurt and humiliated. But there is nothing else to do but for each of them to play along, and soon Peyton and Brooke are unpacking their bags together, comparing stories from the past two years, and Skills runs in the room and hugs Peyton so tightly she thinks she might burst, and even Mouth says she looks different to what he remembers. And Haley, Nathan and Jamie soon arrive, and Peyton spends twenty minutes cooing at the toddler, who has taken a remarkable liking to her already, and even Lucas joins in in the conversation eventually, contributing amusing stories about college professors and his book and Jamie. And every so often he will look Peyton's way, and Peyton will feel his eyes on her, and she wonders whether that fluttering feeling is just nerves or something much more indescribable.

And then, finally, after an hour, maybe, of awkward side glances and long looks at the floor, Lucas and Peyton accidentally lock eyes, and suddenly Peyton can feel herself falling, not just slightly but with a swooping jolt and a catch in her throat. And as she looks into those deep orbs, she knows with painful certainty that this week is going to be much, much harder than she thought.

* * *

><p>The North Carolina forecasts paint an unpleasant picture of this week's weather. Brooke Davis, in all of her infinite wisdom and charm, could have hardly picked a worse week to spend at the beach. Thunderstorms and lightning starting from Tuesday, and steady rain set in for the rest of the week. But the sun sets late in summer, and right now is thankfully still shining, still winking tantalisingly through the trees next to the beach, and Peyton wants nothing more than to take off her shoes and run onto the sand.<p>

And it seems like someone else has the same idea.

"Who wants to go to the beach?" Lucas announces, walking nonchalantly out of his room. He has changed clothes, and sports a pair of board shorts and a white t-shirt. Peyton momentarily eyes the rippling muscles noticeable under the thin fabric, and bites her lip. Although she has repeatedly tried to convince herself otherwise, there has always been something so physically appealing about Lucas. His height. The way he looked so muscular with minimal effort. His hands, especially when they were touching her –

"I do," she responds immediately without thinking, still looking at him – or, more accurately, his chest, – her eyes glazed over. And then, realising her error when nobody else responds, she wheels around to glare at Brooke, silently begging her to join them.

"I – I can't, sorry," Brooke says, trying but failing to look apologetic, and managing only a half-disguised smirk. "I have…"

Brooke looks at Haley, clearly desperate for any invented excuse, a chance to force Peyton and Lucas to be alone together.

"Oh, yeah," Haley improvises, catching on, and looks around the room wildly for inspiration. A jar of pizza sauce sits on the bench.

"Brooke and I are… making dinner tonight. Pizza. And Nathan is… looking after Jamie. So we're out. Sorry."

"Sorry, Luke," Skills concurs. "Playoff finals." And sure enough, Skills has found the TV remote, and is already spread out on the couch with a beer and a bag of popcorn.

"Looks like it's just you two," says Brooke triumphantly.

"I'll come," Mouth says quietly. "Just let me grab a towel."

And while Brooke looks furious, Peyton breathes a sigh of relief and inwardly promises to thank Mouth later.

* * *

><p>Their beach – and it is theirs, at least for this week – stretches out in a straight line to the left for as long as the eye can see, but on the right curls neatly around, forming a tight bay three hundred metres from their house. Gentle waves lap softly to the shore, and driftwood lines the dunes beyond. The water is clear and blue right to the ocean floor, and small fish dart intermittently through the waves.<p>

Their group of three strides toward the little bay, pushed forward occasionally by strong gusts of warm breeze. Seagulls roam the skies above, and Peyton breathes in the sea air and feels as though she has never been so free.

"Race ya," Lucas says, the offer more directed at Mouth than her, but she joins in anyway. They sprint towards the ocean, pushing each other out of their path, and in a feat of speed Peyton didn't know she possessed, she outruns them all and collapses, laughing, onto the sand next to the tide.

"Beat you," she teases.

"Peyton Sawyer, champion sprinter. Who knew?" says Lucas, looking supremely unfazed and not in the slightest out of breath, while Mouth, panting, clutches his knees.

Lucas removes his t-shirt in one shrug and stares briefly out at the ocean, his hands resting on the back of his head. Peyton's eyes swoop upwards of their own accord and she looks at the rippled muscles on his side; the lean panes of his stomach. _He looks even better than I remember._

Mouth soon follows suit and the two men stride decisively towards the ocean. After a beat's hesitation, they both dive in without a second thought.

"You coming?" Luke yells at Peyton, as they swim further out.

"In the _water_? No way. It's freezing!" Peyton replies.

"No it's not," shouts Mouth. "It's warm! Get in!"

"I don't have my bathing suit on!" she shouts back. "Besides, you guys are crazy!"

Despite her words, she jumps up and runs forward, dipping a toe in the water. Surprisingly, the water is nowhere near as cold as she expects.

"It's warm!" she shouts in amazement, as she walks in up to her ankles.

"I just said that!" shouts Mouth.

"So _get in_!" repeats Lucas.

"I _told_ you, I don't have my – "

But her sentence is cut short when a shower of sea water hits her in the face, and drenches her shorts and singlet. She looks around for the culprit and sees two laughing faces grinning innocently back.

"Oh, you're so dead. Both of you. I wouldn't be smiling."

And feeling as though this is one of those moments when she just needs to _let go_, and abandon her inhibitions, she makes a decision.

I'm coming in," she cries, and she throws herself neatly into the warm water, paddling with brisk strokes as fast as she can out to her friends, still wearing her now-soaked clothes and smiling wider than she has in months.

She quickly reaches Lucas and Mouth and subjects them to the heaviest splashing that she can manage in shoulder-deep water. They enthusiastically retaliate, and for ten minutes Peyton splashes and kicks and wrestles as hard as she can.

She doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly, in the middle of an all-out assault on Lucas, where her plan was to jump up from behind to surprise him, her legs end up entwined around his waist. She doesn't know if Lucas has maneuvered himself so they ended up in that position, or whether it was more accidental, but suddenly she is pressed up relatively tightly, her legs wrapped around his stomach, face-to-face with Lucas, and she can't recall how they got there.

In a flash, every coherent thought vanishes from Peyton's brain. She gasps obviously, and tries to wriggle away, but Lucas' hands are firm on her back and he doesn't seem to want to let go, and her movement only serves to bring them marginally closer together.

She cranes her neck around to look for Mouth, but he is long gone, just a speck in the distance now, out of the ocean and walking back towards the house. Clearly some time ago he must have noticed the playful flirtation and tactfully decided to give the pair their space.

"Um," murmurs Peyton, tongue-tied. Her mouth opens in surprise, forming an impeccable little 'o'. She stares at Lucas mutely, and he stares back, his eyes steady with hers, a shadow of a smile still etched on his face. Their noses are inches apart. Peyton is frozen, unable to decide which way to move – closer or further away. Then Lucas shifts his hips, and suddenly their bodies are touching in every possible place, and Peyton feels like her brain is on fire, and this is familiar and so _right, _and Lucas' eyes are unfocused and glazed, his hands on her lower back now, and he is leaning in slowly –

"Lucas," she pleads, a whisper imparted almost under her breath. She doesn't know if the word is meant as a sigh of invitation or a warning, but Lucas stops and looks at her. And suddenly his eyes come out of their daze, and he looks properly into her eyes.

"Sorry." He breathes out heavily.

"Don't apologise," Peyton says awkwardly, although she doesn't quite know what she means by it. _Did she want that to happen or did she want him to stop?_

But Lucas relinquishes his grip on her back, and Peyton drops gently into the seawater, which somehow feels much colder now, and runs her fingers through her hair. Lucas forces out a weak laugh, shakes his head bemusedly, apologises once more, and dives under the water to clear his head.

Peyton wades out of the water quickly and walks towards the house in the darkening evening light. She spots her previous footsteps from the run toward the ocean, and wonders why she suddenly feels like a totally different person to the girl who created those footsteps not twenty minutes earlier.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading! Please review.<p> 


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